Confusion

I often wonder how many people read my stuff.  That’s the thing about the World-Wide Web.  You’ll never know.  Hits, yes, may be counted.  But who really reads?

My writing is metaphorical.  Unapologetically so.  To gather by past responses, this is not a popular or desirable thing.  It is, however, what I do.  I began publishing fiction in 2009.  (I’ve been writing fiction since the 1970s.)  Rejections fell like rain.

Over the past month, strangely, there have been a few more open editors.  I feel confused.  Within a three-week period I had acceptances from Dali’s LoveChild (an excellent new surrealist literary magazine) and Deep Water (a more established, darker venue).  I even had a maybe from Defenestration.

I’m a realist, despite my fiction.  I know many more rejections will come.  I still regularly get them.  I submitted a truly creepy story to a magazine that was rejected in less than 24 hours—a new personal best!

As a writer, I’m a consummate self-doubter.  When I read the acknowledgements (and I always do) of those who’ve broken through, I realize how many people with whom they discuss their writing.  For me, besides my writing partner Fantasia, this blog is my only venue.  I write alone.  My co-workers have no idea that I do it.  Friends?  Few.

So I find myself confused.  Why, for five years, did I struggle to find anyone willing to publish me?  Now, the opposite question: why two acceptances within a month, and a possible third?  My rate of submissions has not increased.  Does my writing suck or not?

In reality, I suppose, that kind of question is never truly answered.  For some, it is clear, my work does suck.  For others the metaphors speak.

The newly accepted “The First Time” and “Angel Hunter” are asking very probing questions in a world that likes black and white answers.  I only add to the confusion.